Sarah Thornhill (26 page)

In the morning I didn't wait for her say-so, went up to see Pa straight after breakfast. But she was in the room with him.

Dolly dear, she whispered, you'll find he's wandering in his mind. Coming out with all sorts of nonsense. I wouldn't credit anything he told you.

What, you mean delirious? I said.

Only he's got some funny ideas, she said. None of them got any truth to them.

So it was already too late, I thought. He mightn't even recognise me. And if he did, what would I say to him?
You did
wrong, but you meant well
or
Turned out all right, no thanks to you
?

Perhaps I had nothing to say to him. Other than a daughter's goodbye.

He was propped up in the bed. His mouth slack, a line of shiny dribble in one corner.

He made a sound, some kind of a mangled word, when I leaned over and kissed him. Scrabbled for my hand, held it on the coverlet.

Ma was settling into a chair, crocheting in her hand.

Need a bit of time alone with my Pa, I said. You'll have to leave us now.

The crotchet hook stopped in mid-stitch. I saw her mouth move.
How dare you
, she'd start.

I had the words ready.

He's my father, I'd say. He was my father before he was your husband.

I'd march her over to the door if I had to. As a matter of fact I was looking forward to it.

She must of seen it in my face.

I'll let you have five minutes, she said, trying for dignity.

Soon as she was gone Pa took a breath, licked his dry lips.

Dolly, he said. Want you to do something.

He could speak better than I'd feared. Hoarse and slow, but I could understand well enough.

Yes Pa, I said.

Rachel, he said, and I thought Ma might be right after all, he was mistaking me for the girl.

Felt a pang. That he was thinking about her and not me.

Thought I done right, he said.

It was no more than a whisper.

But I done wrong.

He shut his eyes then, and I wondered if it was a tear I could see shining under the lid, or the wetness of his eye. His chest heaved, gathering up the air.

Trying to put it right, he said. What I done.

Turned his head from side to side as if trying to get away from something. I squeezed his hand and we stayed like that for a time. Then he lifted his other hand in a jerky effortful way, wiped it across his face, opened his eyes.

Dick, he said. Up the Branch. Go up and fetch him back for me, there's a lass. Want to see him.

Yes, Pa, I said. Dick Blackwood, you mean?

His eye was as stern as ever it had been. Even lying like this he could still skewer you with that cold look.

Not Dick Blackwood, he said.

Slurred as it was, you could hear the scorn.

Dick Thornhill. Your brother.

Ah, after all this time. The fourth brother.

His tears brimmed over and slid down the deep furrows on his cheeks. It was like the sun running backwards to see Pa cry. I leaned forward and tried an awkward hug. But he didn't want comforting. I felt his impatience.

Bring him here, he whispered. Here to me. Today, lass.

I could hear Ma on her way up the stairs.

Not tell your ma, he said.

I made an asking noise, wasn't sure if I'd heard him right.

Not tell your ma, he said. She don't see how a man might be sorry for what he done.

Then Ma was in the room again and he turned away, his grip slack, it was like sleep except the breathing was so heavy.

Come away now Dolly, she said. He's had enough.

She followed me down the stairs.

Hope he didn't trouble you with any nonsense, she said. Did he, Dolly?

But Anne was at the top of the stairs calling that Pa was wanting Mrs Thornhill. Nearly dead, the old feller, but he had a few tricks left in him.

I
T WAS ODD
seeing the skiff still tied up at the jetty as it always had been. I got in and took up the oars, shiny where you held them. Jack had held this oar, that last morning. Opened my hand to see the place his palm had been. Old grey wood, the grain opening up. That day felt as remote as Moses.

Rowed up to where the Branch angled off, stroked up past Devine's, past Matthew's, past Maunder's. The day had clouded over. The water grey, the bush still. Not a bird calling, not a cricket chirping. Only water whispering under the bow and the splash of the oars.

Sorry for what he done
. To send a child away and not try to put it right till now! No wonder he wept.

Dick, he'd be another proud one. Laughed at me for saying he was sent off. My own free will, he'd said, but I wouldn't remind him of that hollow boast.

Leave well alone, Jack had said, but I hadn't. I was glad I'd tried, that day at Mrs Herring's. Wished I'd managed it better. Been not so blunt, gone a bit slower. Thought how it might feel from his side. Not blundering in wanting to know, just for the pleasure of curiosity met.

Jack, dear Jack, you knew, I thought. Knew about being the one pushed out of a family.

With Jack at the oars, the distance up the Branch had seemed nothing. On my own it was a long and weary way, the river adding bend on bend, surely long past where those dogs had come after us.

You do get a man in a pickle, Sarah Thornhill!

I'd remind Dick about that day. We'd have a good laugh about it. Late in the day for brother and sister to find each other, sad too that it took a father's death, but life was long, handed you these gifts when you least expected.

The jetty hadn't changed. Dick Blackwood's old skiff tied up and the dogs running down barking like they had before, but this time a man coming along behind. Shouted at them, they stopped barking, went back up to the house.

I got the skiff in, he leaned over and got the rope out of the bow, reached down to help me up. Kept holding my hand when I was standing beside him.

Dick Blackwood. The same black beard, overgrown dark hair, a brown face that had known plenty of weather. And his eyes. Sharp, like that other time. What I hadn't seen then, he had Pa's eyes. That sharp blue, and the same shape.

I hoped he was smiling but with the beard I couldn't tell.

Dick, I said, it's Sarah Daunt. Sarah Thornhill that was. Your sister.

Thought you might come, he said. Thought one of you'd be up to see me.

Saw you once, I said. At Mrs Herring's.

Oh yes, Dolly, he said. I remember. You and Jack Langland. Come up here, only the dogs come after you.

It's Pa, I said. He's poorly. In a bad way.

He nodded once. I wasn't telling him any news.

Wants to see you, I said. Sent me to say, will you come?

In among the beard there was some kind of a curl to his mouth.

Think he might be sorry, I said. You know. That he sent you off. Wants to make good.

Dick laughed. I could see his red tongue, his strong teeth.

Oh dearie me, Dolly, he said. Told you that other time. It weren't him sent me away. It was me went. More than willing.

He looked down the river as if he could see all the way I'd come, past the reeds and bush, to where Pa lay.

There's a lot never been said, I can see that, he said.

Up at the house I could see someone had put more wood on the fire, the smoke from the chimney faster and darker. His wife, that would be, getting the kettle boiling. Why Dolly, she'd say. Glad to have you under my roof at last.

I could of done with a dish of tea and a talk with her. Wanted us to make up for all those years.

Can't ask you in, Dolly, Dick said. Can't bring you in the house.

Why's that, Dick, I said. I got no quarrel with you. Between you and Pa, whatever it was.

He didn't rise to that, took me by surprise changing tack.

Jack Langland, he said. Think about him, do you? Still?

I was a woman married to a husband who was the best of men. But when Dick asked that, I knew some part of me would always rise to that name.

Yes, I said. Always be with me.

This Daunt feller, he said. He all right?

He's a good man, I said. I'm a lucky woman. But Dick, if you know something. About Jack. Be a kindness to tell me.

A kindness, he said. Not what I'd call it.

I remembered what I hadn't thought of till then. That last morning with Jack, watching the skiff come down out of the Branch. I'd wondered why, just for a second, but never thought about it again till now.

What is it, Dick? I said. Something you know that I don't.

You wasn't even born, he said. Nothing in it any of your doing.

Wasn't even born! I said. A silly young girl, yes, but not that much of a baby!

No, Dolly, Dick said. This goes right back. You not born, me just a lad. Not our doing, but set our lives down for us, the path we'd go on. The both of us, Dolly, you and me both, no matter it was none of our doing.

Best tell me, I said. You best tell me, Dick.

He turned towards the house. Something moved, a figure in the doorway, then another, a child that went to run out and was pulled back.

Can't have you in the house, he said. But I'll fetch us a drink of tea. Sit yourself down, Dolly.

I sat where he pointed, a fallen log by the water. The grass worn away on the river side, the wood polished from backsides. I was in her seat, that unknown person boiling the kettle.

Dick walked back down with mugs of tea and a plate of johnny-cakes.

Nothing against you, Dolly, he said. She says, make sure your sister gets one of these.

I wasn't hungry, but I took one and ate it as a greeting.

Makes a good johnny-cake, Dick said. Now I best tell you, much as I hate to say the words. There was trouble, see. With the blacks.

With the blacks? I said, when I thought he wasn't going to say any more.

I been with them since I was old enough to run about, he said. Played along with them, spoke their tongue. Closer than kin to me.

It was hard to imagine this grim man a child.

What sort of trouble, I said.

The blacks was camped up here, by the lagoon, he said. Mob of men come along. Killed them, all but five.

Speaking so low, I could only just hear.

Fact is, he said, that man was with them. Your father and mine.

With them, I said. How do you mean, Pa with them? With the blacks?

Not with the blacks, Dolly, he said. Old Tom Blackwood, he was here. Built that house. Had a wife, native way. And a little one, four or five years old.

Stared down the river as if he could see the little one there.

Them fellers didn't go for that, he said. Wanted to be rid of the blacks. Taking the corn and that. Couldn't abide that Blackwood was here with them. Come up on the tide one morning. Remember the
Hope
? Come up on that. Rushed the blacks while they was sleeping. Guns and swords. One feller had a whip. Laid about him with that whip. Got old Blackwood fair across the eyes. That was it for him, never made out light from dark, that day to this.

They needed the boat, I said. Pa got them up here. Needed the
Hope.
That's all.

He was in with the rest of them, Dick said. Never doubt that, Dolly. In with his gun along with the rest, shot one of the old fellers stone dead.

No! I said.

Dick got up, flung his tea leaves out on the grass.

You can say no if you like, Dolly, he said. Like everyone else. No, it never did happen. No, it weren't me. No, never heard a word about it. Eleven dead, Dolly, in the end. Some hurt so bad they might as well be. Two women got away in the bush, a few little ones with them and a young lad.

The doorway was empty now, but a shape in the window was someone watching. He didn't have to tell me. One of the ones got away, one of the little ones, would be the woman up there.

The old feller, I said. Lives down near us on the point.

Half his damn head gone, Dick said. Yes. You got the idea, Dolly. You got it now.

Pa holding out the bundle of food like someone begging, the man never looking his way.

I come up here after, Dick said. Threw in my lot with Blackwood and the ones that was left. Never seen that man, that day to this. Won't be seeing him now. You can tell him that, Dolly.

Jack? I said.

Hardly a whisper, because I almost knew.

You got the right to know, Dolly, he said. Jack come here one day, burning up with feeling. Your ma, she'd said some things about what happened.

He laughed, a hard
humph!

Wise feller, Jack, he said. Knew you couldn't trust that woman far as you could throw her. She told him, You don't believe me, you ask Dick Blackwood.

Believe what, I said.

Jack's Ma was dead, Dick said. Before the killings. But she was kin to these folk here. Your ma told him the whole thing. Told him, the man you want for your father-in-law got the blood of your kin on his hands.

Never want to see your face again.

My word Jack loved you, Dick said. When I told him, I felt like that feller with the whip myself. Often thought, should I of done different. Told him no, it was all a story.

Why did you, I said. Why'd you have to tell him?

He looked away down the river so long I thought I wouldn't ever get an answer.

Dolly dear, he said finally, I told him because one fine day it would of come out. No water deep enough to hide a secret like that.

Said yourself, I wasn't even born! I said. Pa's secret, not mine!

That man's blood in your veins, Dolly, Dick said. Mine too. No getting away from that. That man's money putting the food in our mouths and the clothes on our backs, and the money coming out of what he done that day. I saw Jack go off, Dolly. Nothing else he could of done.

I'd been at the other end of that going off. Jack rowing to the jetty, boiling over and frozen. He'd flung my arm away like a spider.

No! I said.

My voice echoed back at me across the water.

You wanted to know, he said. Now you do. I'm glad to see you, Dolly, but best you go now.